


Honestly Posh

by Copgirl1964



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Boys Kissing, Getting Together, Greg the model, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Mycroft the fashion designer, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-08-20 19:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20232979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/pseuds/Copgirl1964
Summary: When model Greg Lestrade finds himself unemployed all of a sudden, he turns to a friend for help. Working for Honestly Posh, a fashion label owned by Mycroft Holmes, would be a dream but does Greg stand a chance?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblingnellie (onegirlandherpen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onegirlandherpen/gifts).

> The story was bought by Scribblingnellie, who I can only consider a saint for her unending patience and the lovely prompt. I hope you like it. 
> 
> I also want to thank @Lavender_and_Vanilla for beta-ing the story.

“What on earth has happened? The message you left me, sounded as if you’re expecting to be executed or worse.” Sienna Carlisle, one of Greg’s closest friends, gave him a quick hug and kissed him on his cheek.

Greg pointed at the black standard poodle sitting next to him. “This happened,” he said, as if that would explain everything.

“Hi Patricia,” Sienna greeted the poodle, who politely wagged her tail but stayed where she had been ordered to sit. “Did your daddy dump you on grumpy Greggie again?” Patricia’s tongue lolled out, when she received an ear-rub.

Greg harrumphed. “Stop calling me grumpy Greggie!”

Sienna only giggled and rubbed the happy poodle’s ears some more.

“Patricia arrived, well, was delivered, with her dog basket, blanket, collar, food, you name it,” Greg said, ticking off the items with his fingers. “And this letter.” He pulled an envelope from his jeans and handed it to Sienna.

Upon reading it, her mouth fell open. “Giovanni decided to retire to Hawaii and bequeath you Patricia and a couple of thousand pounds a month so you can take care of her properly? Holy Crowley, there are worse fates.”

Giovanni Giordano had been the star fashion designer in London, although all the clothes he designed were exclusively sewn in Milan. Giovanni had also collected models like other people collected books or stamps. Greg had been paid generously but except for about dozen shows a few years prior, Giovanni had kept him mostly away from the catwalk. Bound by a contract, Greg had been forced to keep in shape, take care of Patricia and basically sit on his arse, while watching others become famous. All he could do was counting the hairs on his head that recently and prematurely started to turn grey.

“So, what’s the problem?” Sienna asked.

“The good news it that I’m free to find proper work again,” Greg explained. “But as soon as the word gets out, so will Giovanni’s other models. I have no connections and with this,” he pointed at his hair, “I’ll probably be the last kid chosen for a team.”

Sienna rubbed her chin. “Nonsense! I suggest you better start searching right away. Who do you fancy working for?”

Greg rubbed his chin. “Cheaney or Dunhill would be great. Burberry would be a dream but I probably end up with Marks & Spencer,” Greg sighed.

“What about HP?” Sienna asked.

“Honestly Posh? I’d never stand a chance.” Greg tried to sound as if it didn’t matter while the mere idea made him itch all over. He loved the cut of Honestly Posh suits; even owned one. He had only been able to afford it because Sienna, who worked for HP as a tailor, had done the sewing for free and checked it though her company account.

Watching the emotions pass over Greg’s face, Sienna rolled her eyes. “I tell you what,” she said. “I take Patricia back to the shop and you get yourself fixed up.” She indicated the stubble on Greg’s chin and mop of hair that was in dire need of a haircut. “Come over, say sixish. By then I will have thought of something.”

* * *

Leaving the barber Greg had to admit that he felt infinitely better. He dropped by his flat to change into the HP suit which he hadn’t been allowed to wear while being under contract with Giovanni Giordano. Greg sighed happily when the suit hugged his body like a second skin. He chose a pair of converse sneakers instead of his Oxfords though. Comfortable footwear was key when walking the often treacherous streets of London.

It had been a while since Greg had actually visited the tailor’s shop of Honestly Posh, that occupied a prime location at Saville Row. Just being amidst those beautiful suits always made him feel like a kid in a candy store. When he arrived, the front door was already locked but he knew where to enter the shop from the garden. Patricia was lying on the small strip of lawn, enjoying the evening sun. She merely opened one eye when she heard his footsteps and, after wagging her tail to show that she was pleased to see him, closed it again.

Greg saw that the window of what he remembered to be Sienna’s workroom was wide open. Next to it was the handrail of the short staircase that lead to the backdoor of the shop. With a grin he hopped onto the handrail and a second later the window sill with a shout of “surprise!”.

Indeed it was a surprise because instead of Sienna, her colleague Anthea and a tall, elegantly dressed man with ginger hair whirled round to face him, sending the papers that had been spread on a table, flying.

Piercing grey-blue eyes stared at Greg and took in his appearance, from the by now bright red ears to, the man gasped, his sneakers.

“The Doctor got away with combining a suit with Chuck Taylor All-Stars but you are not David Tennant!” Mycroft Holmes, owner of Honestly Posh, proclaimed.

God, that voice.

Greg felt a shiver running down his spine and blushed even further. Deciding that it was probably a good idea to climb down from the window sill he’d been crouching on, Greg stepped forward and stuck out his hand, ignoring Anthea’s glare.

“I’m Greg Lestrade, a friend of Sienna Carlisle. I apologize for my entrance.” He gave Mycroft Holmes his most brilliant smile.

For a moment Greg thought that he had committed another faux pas when the man regarded his hand without taking it. Fashion designers were a particular if not peculiar species. Greg swallowed and was about to retract his hand, when it was grasped firmly by surprisingly smooth and long fingers. Greg’s whole attention flew to the palm of his right hand, where it touched the designer’s.  
He knew that he had a knack for making bad decisions but right now he couldn’t care less. He was already in the process of falling for a man, way out of his league, who he met a mere minute ago.

Mycroft Holmes was one of the youngest fashion designers in London. His career initially hadn’t quite evolved as his family, especially his mother, had hoped. The suits he designed were made of the finest fabrics and their cut was exquisite. Unfortunately, few people had the build to wear them with the dignity they required. His brother was one of those few. Well, and Mycroft himself.

A few years prior, Mycroft had seen Greg Lestrade on the catwalk in Paris, and the sight of him had been enough to spark a desire Mycroft had never felt before. The model was handsome enough that he even look good in one of those atrocious suits Giovanni Giordano inflicted on the public. On top of that, the man had the charisma to present them. Mycroft had decided right then and there to go for a slightly different style; one with the model Greg in his mind. Unfortunately, Giordano had been unwilling to let the model out of his contract, when Mycroft made discreet inquiries behind Greg’s back.  
But now the model was in Mycroft’s shop and since he wore one of the HP suits, Mycroft knew that for some reason the Italian had left the picture.

Trying to act like the professional fashion designer he was, Mycroft looked down his nose at the man, whose hand he still grasped. “I presume you are here to convince me, probably with the help of your friend, Miss Carlisle, to take you as a model?”

“That wasn’t my intention when I came here,” Greg answered honestly, “but if you gave me a chance, I’d very very grateful.” He bestowed a hopeful smile on Mycroft.

During the exchange, Sienna had quietly slipped into the room. When she had heard Greg hop into the wrong room with a shout, she had feared for the worse. Instead she found her boss not only hadn’t exploded but seemed to regard Greg with a look so fond, one could think he was the most expensive piece of fabric. Of course, it could be the suit he wore but something told Sienna that it wasn’t the suit but the man it contained. She knew that Greg could charm the birds down from the trees if he set his mind to it but she recognized that in this case Greg didn’t simply use his devastating smile and puppy-eyed look as means to an end. Her friend seemed to be honestly attracted to Mycroft Holmes, low and behold.

“Alright,” Mycroft said, letting go of Greg’s hand. “Be here tomorrow at ten. I’d like to see you in a few different suits before I make a decision and take measurements.”

Anthea cleared her throat. “Tomorrow is Sunday, and we are closed,” she said.

“I’m well aware of the day of the week,” Mycroft replied icily, his eyes moving to his tailor. “Now, I’d like to get back to work.” Without further ado, he returned to the papers on the desk.

Sienna took Greg by the arm and pulled him from the room. She absolutely did not tell him that Mycroft Holmes never used a measuring tape because he could perceive a person’s measurements with a single look.

With her boss in the house she couldn’t just leave, so Sienna sent Greg on his way with Patricia and the request to tell her all about that appointment asap.

* * *

When Mycroft arrived home that evening, he went straight for the cabinet that contained a bottle of single malt whisky. Most evenings he had a cup of tea to settle down because he’d seen what regular alcohol intake did to people in the business. Every now and then he treated himself to a cup of high quality cocoa instead of tea but tonight he needed something stronger.

Taking a sip, Mycroft sighed and walked to the window to stare out into the dark. He wanted nothing but to settle down in his armchair and study the latest issue of Vogue Hommes International but he knew that right now he would neither be able to concentrate nor to relax.

A small flock of butterflies did a jig in his stomach when he recalled the day he’d first seen Greg Lestrade. It had been during the opening of a new exhibition centre and hotel in Paris a couple of years ago. On the occasion, fashion designers from all over Europe had been given the chance to show their latest creations. Illustrious people, artists, actors, politicians, simply anyone and everyone who wanted to be seen, attended.

Mycroft’s reason for attending had been foremost to see who his competitors were. As expected, the fashion ranged from tasteful to atrocious and Mycroft was on the verge of falling asleep when Giovanni Giordano’s three models got on the catwalk. Two of them immediately disappeared from Mycroft’s perception but the third model, a chocolate-eyed beauty of a man with thick dark hair and a thousand-watts-smile, made him sit up.

Mycroft could still remember how his mouth had gone dry. The suit the model wore had a cut Mycroft despised but the man still managed to look glorious. The swing of the slim hips had been enough to have Mycroft close to hyperventilating and when the model had winked in his direction, he was certain everyone in the hall could hear the beat of his heart.

Giordano had left the world of fashion for good though and Greg Lestrade was available. Certainly to work for him and perhaps for more. Mycroft had noticed that the man was interested in him too. The widening of the pupils had been impossible to miss.

Clicking his tongue, he decided to invite him to his house instead of the tailor’s shop. Mycroft was a man who liked to keep an open mind, especially when it came to mutual attraction. Emptying his glass, he pulled out his phone and wrote a text.

* * *

Greg’s excitement about seeing Mycroft Holmes the following day, lasted exactly until he opened his closet and saw what was inside. Half of it were clothes he got while working for Giordano, the rest were casual wear and sports clothing he felt the fashion designer wouldn’t approve of. The only piece of clothing appropriate was the suit he’d already worn, and showing up in it again would be worse than wearing his oldest pair of jeans. Contemplating the dilemma, there was only one way out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg arrives at Mycroft's house, not quite in the state he'd planned but perhaps that's not so bad after all.

The following morning, once Patricia had been walked and fed, Greg hopped on his bike to cycle to the address Mycroft had sent him last night. He was dressed in his cycling gear, prepared to tell the man hat he’d scheduled his workout after their appointment. According to Google, it’d take about half an hour from his flat in Islington to the designer’s house just north of Hyde Park. Greg added an extra fifteen minutes because he’d no intention to arrive drenched in sweat.

The idea had been a good one but unfortunately Greg forgot to check the weather report before he left. Half way the infamous English rain started and by the time he arrived, there wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t soaked.

Squinting through the rain at the elegant house, wondering whether he should just knock or return home because he was too embarrassed to present himself in such a state, Greg was startled, when the door was flung open.

“Do you want me to get you some shampoo or would you rather come inside?” Mycroft called out.

For a moment Greg looked like a startled rabbit but then he hopped off the bike swiftly, locked it to a post and hurried inside. Greg was grateful that the hall had a tiled floor, easy enough to clean, because he was literally dripping wet. Before he could even open his mouth to apologize, Mycroft told him to take off his shoes and then ushered him into the bathroom.

“You’re here to try on clothes anyway,” he told Greg. “See that you get warm.” Mycroft pointed at the shower. “Meanwhile, I’ll put the kettle on.”

In the kitchen, Mycroft leaned his forehead against the cool tiles and closed his eyes as soon as he heard the shower start. What had he done to deserve this fate? He adjusted his trousers and took a few deep breaths, hoping to calm himself. Both the cycling shorts and the jersey had clung to Greg like a second skin, rather highlighting Greg’s assets than hiding them. Even the most unimaginative mind would have been able to imagine what was hidden underneath the clothes, and a designer’s brain was far from unimaginative.

‘He’s standing in your shower. Naked!’ Mycroft’s brain provided unhelpfully.

Trying to prevent his brain from conjuring up images of what the showering model would look like, covered only with rivulets of water and soapy foam, Mycroft concentrated on the task of making tea. In fact, his concentration was so very perfect that he failed to notice Greg entering the kitchen until the man spoke up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to put on, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft whirled round and it was a close call that he didn’t drop the cups he was holding. Greg, clad in Mycroft’s dressing gown looked sheepishly at his toes.

“That’s quite alright,” Mycroft croaked, and gestured for Greg to take a seat in the living room, where the thick carpet would keep his naked feet warm. “And, please, do call me Mycroft.”

Leaving Greg in the living room, Mycroft returned to the kitchen. In order to compose himself, again, he took a few deep, shuddering breaths. Seeing Greg in his dressing gown after they barely knew each other should have been weird. Instead, all Mycroft could think was, how very right it felt, like how it was supposed to be.

“I hope you like white tea,” Mycroft said, putting down the tray.  
Greg nodded his agreement but his whole demeanour showed, that something was bothering him.

“If you don’t like the tea, it’s alright. I got other tea. No coffee though, I fear.”

Greg shook his head. “It’s not that. I…”

Mycroft sat down and regarded his counterpart with some concern. “Tell me.”

“I don’t want to appear impertinent or imply…” Greg sighed. “I guess I’ll just say it.” He swallowed. “I just want to tell you that I didn’t plan this.” He indicated the dressing gown. “I didn’t plan to get wet to get out of my clothes to try to seduce you or anything. I really like y… I’d really like working for you but I would never try to convince you by offering sex. Neither do I want to be used that way.”

Once he had finished, Greg grabbed the cup and took a large gulp of his tea. It was probably a good thing that it was white tea, which isn’t made with boiling water. Otherwise the man’s mouth would have been scalded.

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth twitched, and if anything, Greg’s words made him even more endearing.

“Relax, Greg. I know you didn’t plan showing up looking dripping wet. You were visibly embarrassed and I would have recognised if you were acting. I can also assure you that if you had planned to seduce me to get a job, you would have failed. I don’t employ people on the basis that they let me fuck them. Even when they’re as handsome as you are.”

Greg’s head shot up and he stared at Mycroft.

Good lord, could this man actually think he was anything but attractive? Mycroft thought.  
“Yes, Greg. I think you are very handsome.”  
When Greg, pink-faced, automatically touched his hair at his temple where the first grey strands were visible. Mycroft smiled helplessly.  
“Especially with your hair turning grey. I think it’s very becoming.”  
‘Putting it mildly’, Mycroft finished the sentence in his mind.  
“Now, since we got that out of the way, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

* * *

Sharing tea turned out to be a surprisingly relaxed affair. A whole hour seemed to fly with both men talking as if they’d known each other for years.  
Mycroft was delighted that Greg wasn’t just handsome but bright and interesting to talk to as well.  
Greg told him how he grew up in France but moved to England eventually to study forensic science and criminal law. To fund his studies, Greg had worked as a model and that’s how he met Giovanni Giordano. He still wanted to work for the Met but feared that by now, he was too old.  
Greg laughed when he leaned that Mycroft was raised in England and, interested in both politics and history, he’d considered working for the government but went to Paris instead where he studied fashion design.

Once the last drop of tea was drunk, Mycroft stood up. “Shall we proceed with the measurements?”

Greg nodded and got to his feet. He was lead to another room that Mycroft obviously used for working. Prints of his various creations decorated the walls, and a row of suits were hung up neatly on a clothes rail. Greg looked around curiously and Mycroft watched with more than a little pride as the model studied both the prints and the suits with an expression of unabashed joy on his face. The way he touched the suits was nothing short of worship

Eventually Greg turned to Mycroft. “All this is amazing.” He gestured helplessly, and Mycroft felt hard pressed not to preen too much upon Greg’s delight.

“Perhaps you’d like to try a few of the suits first?”

Greg grinned like a kid who discovered both Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny on the guest list for his birthday. He nodded enthusiastically.

“Do you only want me to try them or shall I show you how I would present them on the catwalk?”

“The latter!” Mycroft exclaimed, and together they decided on three suits. Naturally they came with shirts, socks and shoes and if Greg was surprised that every single item fit like it had been tailored for him, he didn’t let on.

Greg stepped behind a folding screen to change, and Mycroft turned away until Greg said that he was ready. He wanted to be surprised.

The first suit was a single-breasted three-piece suit in dark blue and red glen check. It came with a white shirt and light-grey tie. A comfortable suit for cooler temperatures, Greg decided. One, a man could wear every day, provided he had the necessary funds.  
Greg went through the usual routine of walking and turning to present the suit from all sides, while Mycroft watched him appreciatively.

Their second was a single breasted evening jacket and trousers in midnight blue fine herringbone cloth. Greg kept the white shirt but wore a bow-tie with it.  
He presented it more or less like the first but chose to walk differently. This wasn’t a suit to wear in the office or for a business meeting but one he’d wear for a night at the opera.

Still, Greg felt something was missing in his presentation. Wrinkling his forehead, he thought while he changed into the third three-piece suit. Then he had an idea.

“Mycroft, would you terribly mind if I put some music on when I present this one?”

The designer shook his head and even went and fetched Greg’s mobile phone from the bathroom, where Greg’s clothes hung on the heated towel rails.

Greg was glad that his phone had survived the impromptu shower on his way over. Looking through his music files, he chose a piece by ZZ Top.

Mycroft almost jumped out of his skin when “Sharp Dressed Man” blasted from Greg’s phone and it was an equally close call to prevent his jaw from dropping to the floor, when he caught sight of the model.

Jacket and trousers were made of black merino wool, tie and waistcoat of matching dark grey colour. Mycroft had no idea whether it was the music but Greg seemed to have transformed into a whole different being. The combination Greg wore wasn’t even Mycroft’s favourite but Greg radiated sensuality and sex as he walked across the room. At what point Greg had opened the two buttons of the jacket escaped Mycroft, but when Greg turned, he slung the jacket over his shoulder and walked back.

The music stopped and the men stared at each other, both equally breathless.

“Good lord!” Mycroft managed eventually.

“Does that mean, I got the job?” Greg asked excitedly, his voice not quite steady .

“Should you even consider working for anyone but me, I’ll sue you,” Mycroft promised. He offered his hand for Greg to shake to seal their arrangement.

“Then there’s only one task left, I think,” Greg said, his eyes twinkling. “Taking my measurements.”

Mycroft blushed. “I think you already know that it won’t be necessary.”

“Perhaps I want you to take them anyhow?”

Mycroft swallowed, because the implication was quite clear. “Well in this case...” He gestured in the direction of the folding screen. “I really can’t take your measurements while you’re wearing a three-piece suit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story turns out a bit longer than I had planned it. It should have ended with this chapter but the boys aren't quite finished yet. Expect the next and positively last chapter to get an M rating. ;-)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the reason why the story is rated M.  
Since Greg asked so politely, how could Mycroft possibly say no to taking his measurements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos. They really mean a lot to me.  
I had a great prompt from Scribblingnellie to work with and those who want to know what I think Greg and Mycroft look like in this story, have a look at my Tumblr or Twitter account. Posted a photo there (a manip really with my rather limited knowledge how to manip).

While Greg took off the suit, Mycroft rummaged through a drawer in his desk for the measuring tape. It had been ages since he’d used it. Both writing pad and pencil could remain in the drawer because Mycroft was quite capable to remember any measurements to begin with and this wasn’t really about gathering data anyway. At least not data that was supposed to end up on a notepad.

Greg slipped into the dressing gown once more but he didn’t tie the belt, and as Mycroft turned to face him, he almost dropped the measuring tape. The open dressing gown revealed only a narrow strip of skin but it was enough for Mycroft to decide that Greg was even more beautiful then he’d given him credit for.

“I fear the dressing gown has to go too,” Mycroft said, his voice already hoarse with desire.

Greg’s eyes didn’t leave Mycroft’s when he let the piece of clothing slip from his shoulders and pool around his feet.

“Oh,” was the only word Mycroft managed for Greg wore nothing but a pair of short blue briefs. Very short briefs. The designer was certain that he’d seen more material in a glove.  
“I haven’t forgotten what you said earlier, Greg, but I find you incredibly enticing,” Mycroft said, while he eyed the delightful love trail from Greg’s belly button down to his waist-band.

Greg was not a man used to ensnared people by putting his body on display. He blushed upon Mycroft’s look of unconcealed desire and the sudden awareness of the contrast between Mycroft, dressed in an elegant suit and himself, being almost naked, made him feel very self-conscious.

Seeing Greg’s boldness evaporate, Mycroft quickly stepped forward to take him in his arms. His lips brushed Greg’s temple. “Let me take care of you. I won’t do anything against your wishes.” He nuzzles his nose into Greg’s hair, that smelled of his own shampoo.

Greg relaxed against Mycroft’s chest. The brush of the man’s lips and the expensive material of the suit against his bare skin felt both sensual and soothing.

“Yes,” he breathed. “I want this. I want you.”

Mycroft’s eyes darkened upon Greg’s words.

Cupping the model’s face in the palm of one hand, Mycroft brushed a kiss across his lips so gently, Greg wasn’t certain whether he’d felt or imagined it.

“Please,” he whispered.

Mycroft stepped back. “Well then...”

He started taking the measurements at Greg’s neck, continued with his arms and then the back. In vain he tried to keep his touch professional and as his fingers swept over the dip right above Greg’s firm buttocks, his hand began to shake ever so slightly.  
He wasn’t the only one affected by their little game. Shivers ran across Greg’s skin wherever Mycroft’s fingers came in direct contact with it.

Determined to finish measuring the torso, Mycroft turned to Greg’s front. A smattering of dark chest-hair greeted him and the dusky nipples looked so very inviting that Mycroft longed to kiss them, wondering if they were as receptive to touch as his own.

Measurements of Greg’s chest and waist secured, the designer crouched down to measure the length of the left leg.  
Greg’s self-control dissolved when he felt the man’s warm breath ghost over the skin at his hip and under the blue cotton of his briefs, his cock began to swell.

Mycroft quickly stood up, unwilling to wait any longer. Once again he pulled Greg close but this time his kiss wasn’t meant to sooth. He ran his tongue across Greg’s lips that parted willingly and welcomed him. The stroke of Greg’s tongue against his own and the strong fingers who’d begun to play with the short hair at the nape of Mycroft’s neck felt exquisite and he shuddered. Greg clearly had no idea what he did to him.  
One hand spread on Greg’s shoulder to hold him, Mycroft’s other squeezed one of the firm globes of the model’s bottom.

Greg pressed willingly against Mycroft’s front and felt his own erection greeted by an equal hardened length, still encased in expensive suit trousers. Time to find out what was hidden underneath.

Mycroft had other plans though. With gentle force he manhandled Greg to turn and face the wall. Then he pushed forward and, rubbing his erection against Greg’s behind, he reached inside the man’s briefs and pulled out his cock.

“Oh lord!” Greg exclaimed, when Mycroft started stroking him, squeezing and teasing him expertly to full hardness.

The combination of clever fingers on his cock and the hard promise of what Greg intended to taste later, rubbing repeatedly against the cleft of his bottom, quickly turned him into a moaning mess and much quicker than he’d have liked, Greg tensed and spilled over Mycroft’s hand. Completely spent, he slumped against Mycroft’s chest, who kept kissing his neck and murmured sweet nonsense while allowing Greg to calm in his arms.

“I know that you’re about to offer your mouth,” Mycroft said eventually, “but I fear that must wait until a later time.”

It took Greg a moment to comprehend but a look down the front of Mycroft’s trousers, which sported a tale-telling wet patch, clarified the man’s words.

“You were too delicious.” Mycroft shrugged apologetically.

“As long as there’s a later.” Greg couldn’t help but feel flattered that this sophisticated man who surely could have any man or woman he wanted, had come in those expensive trousers because of him.

“I very much hope so,” Mycroft replied. “But first, I want to wine and dine you. There’s a lovely restaurant in Kensington where I’m sure I can get us a table even without a reservation.”

“But I don’t have anything to wear,” Greg exclaimed. “I chose the cycling outfit today because I own only suits of Giovanni’s label and, aside from the suit you saw yesterday, there’s only jeans and other casual attire,” he confessed, blushing with embarrassment.

Mycroft laughed out loud. “You don’t have anything to wear?” he asked. “Greg,” he pointed to the rack with the suits, “those are yours. They have been waiting for you to wear from the moment they were tailored.”

“Oh my god.” Tears in his eyes and incapable of coming up with a verbal reply, Greg did the only thing he could think of to show his appreciation. He kissed Mycroft; again, again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might wonder what happened to Patricia. Well, it would look odd for Mycroft to have a poodle in his house-hold that was once owned by one of his adversaries. Fortunately, people see but don't observe, so Greg and Mycroft own a poodle called Alicia and while Patricia had a Continental clip, Alicia sports a Lamb clip, which makes her look quite like a different dog. Of course, neither Sienna, nor Anthea will tell  
My thanks go to @EventHorizon who was so kind to provide me with the necessary information about poodle clips.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little epilogue I had in my mind...

It was a particularly cold morning in February about two and a half years later when Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade stood on the lee side of a kiosk in Chiswick. The clock had only struck four forty-five and the wind had chased away even the hardened homeless man who usually slept in this very spot. Shivering in the icy wind, Mycroft pulled Greg close and kissed the cold lips.

“Excited?” he asked the man he would soon be able to address as husband.

Greg smiled against Mycroft’s lips. “I hope you won’t be cross when I tell you that I’m much more excited about our appointment at the registry office than the photos.”

Mycroft’s mind and heart performed several somersaults in unison.  
“Sod the magazine!”  
He was about to drag Greg back to the privacy of their home, when a lorry came to a screeching halt in front of the kiosk and the driver threw a few stacks of magazines onto the pavement before driving off again.

The men looked at each other and, grinning like loons, they ransacked one of the stacks to pull free a copy of the latest issue of Vogue Hommes International.

Holding the magazine in one hand, Mycroft pulled Greg in for another kiss.

“Of course, I’m not cross, my love. How could I? There’s no grander gift than you, putting our wedding vows over this.”

Together they looked at the cover of the magazine. It showed Greg, who, dressed in Mycroft’s latest creation, by all means looked honestly posh.


End file.
